


and there are things we will never define

by electricshoop



Series: The Art of Losing Oneself While Trying to Be Found (And Other Grand Escape Plans) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, Spiral!Gerry, and Michael and Gerry both being incredibly awkward, but by the time you figure out you kinda also don't want to serve some eldritch madness god, feat. lots of doors, it's more or less too late for that Important Insight, tfw you very much don't want to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: Pros of serving the literal embodiment of the Fear of madness: it won't let you die in a stupid hospital bedCons of serving the literal embodiment of the Fear of madness: serving the literal embodiment of the Fear of madness... At least he's not alone. Even if the entire thing made his relationship to Michael more complicated than it already was to begin with.





	and there are things we will never define

**Author's Note:**

> literally no one asked for an AU in which michael makes gerry into a Spiral avatar to save him from dying, yet here i am,
> 
> inspired by and as always at least partially written for [El](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chet_Un_Gwan/pseuds/Chet_Un_Gwan)! (also, barely proof-read, i'm sorry)
> 
> [title taken from "Sphagnum Esplanade" by The Shins]

It isn't ... bad. Not really. It just hurts, sometimes. Hurts a lot, sometimes.

It is, instead, ... weird, most of all. He spent his entire life learning everything he could about the world his mother shoved him into against his will.

Studying, observing, gathering information, saving it for later; it all would be useful eventually, surely. Traveling with Gertrude, witnessing her sitting hunched over notebooks filled with her tiny, clear handwriting back to back, had further assured him in this belief. Glancing down at his knuckles every now and then, when everything had seemed pointless and too exhausting, and he'd known, certainly, that he'd never fully belong to the Beholding, but that wasn't the point. That wasn't what he wanted. Knowledge was power all the same.

And now ... now this: lies, and deception, and obscuring truths, winding corridors leading nowhere and everywhere. (Leading into corn mazes, sometimes; he'll never forget his second encounter with Michael, the sound of the wind and the way it had rustled through the tall, green plants.)

... That's not what he ever wanted, either.

"It takes some time to adjust, I suppose. It is a good thing time hardly exists at all; it's a concept you made up and that doesn't actually mean anything." Michael's careless words.

Be that as it may, it's ... weird, most of all. Hurts, sometimes.

When Gerry glances down at his knuckles now, the black ink seems to swim in front of his eyes, shapes distorting and spiraling in and around itself, never settling on a clear picture for more than a second or-

Well. Time isn't real.

He clenches his fist and steps through a door, any of them, without paying attention, slams it shut behind himself.

He finds himself on top of a cliff. The wind is biting cold here, wherever "here" is, and sharp, and unrelenting. Somewhere far below: the sound of waves crashing against rock.

He sits down, quietly, tries to concentrate on the smell of the sea, fresh and salty, and tries not to think.

It doesn't work very well.

Some time passes. Gerry doesn't know how much - he used to wear a watch, but he stopped, tossed it aside after realizing that it didn't work, not anymore, not now that he's-

Anyway. Some time passes, and then he hears a soft click coming from somewhere behind him. The sound of a door being pushed shut, gently.

"Fuck off, Michael," he says without turning around.

Footsteps, coming closer, the sound just the tiniest bit ... off. He still pays attention; still tucks away new information in the back of his head, catalogues it; it might still come in handy.

"You're upset," Michael says, matter-of-factly, from just a few steps behind him.

"Well look at you, Sherlock!"

Michael doesn't laugh. Gerry had expected it to laugh, he thinks.

"I don't think I understand why you are upset," it says, slowly stepping a little closer still, and then sitting down next to him.

His anger vanishes with an abruptness that leaves him feeling only empty. Beneath them, the sea doesn't care; the waves keep crashing against the bottom of the cliff with tireless dedication.

"I didn't do anything against your will," Michael continues as it becomes apparent that it won't get an answer. "I asked. And then I asked again."

Gerry remembers that part, yes. He also remembers pretty much begging Michael to not ask a third time, and is grateful it doesn't bring it up.

"I know," he says, fingers twisted into the fabric of his t-shirt; holding on to it tightly.

"Then why are you so upset, assistant?"

Gerry snorts. "Really don't think you have to call me that anymore." He doesn't think he could answer Michael's question, and even if he could, he doubts it would get it, so he refrains from answering.

"Gerard," Michael says.

It catches him off guard. It's the first time Michael used his name, even though he introduced himself back when they first met. It had always been _assistant_, even after that one time Gerry had gotten so annoyed with the nickname that he'd snapped and called Michael _ex-assistant_ back. (Michael had wordlessly turned around and disappeared through a wildly distorted, flickering door, and hadn't shown up again for almost two weeks. Neither of them ever brought it up again.)

"Why did you even offer?" Gerry asks instead of answering. He looks down at his knuckles. Fractals, a different-looking one on each of them. "You could have just let me die."

"Hmm," Michael makes in response, voice shifting in pitch slightly. It slowly reaches out and puts its hand on top of the back of Gerry's.

Almost instantly, the tattoos settle into a shape and stay that way. A small spiral on top of each of his knuckles.

"Maybe I just didn't _want_ you to die," Michael says.

Gerry stares at their hands. Remembers idly thinking _I wonder if I could hold it without cutting myself._ It feels like this might have been a few lifetimes ago.

"Everyone involved with the Beholding is always so keen on answers, as if all of them meant oh so much, and you still think like that as well," Michael says.

Gerry stares at their hands. Remembers asking _"So, if somebody wanted to hold your hand, could they?" _Definitely lifetimes ago.

"Not every answer is complicated," Michael says.

Gerry stares at their hands. Remembers-

He exhales slowly. _It is, though_, he thinks. _That doesn't make anything less complicated._

Michael is looking at him; Gerry can feel its eyes on him without having to turn his head. "What are you thinking, assi-" It cuts itself off, hesitates. "Gerard?"

What _is _he thinking? He sighs, shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. Not the one Michael is still half holding; he doesn't move that one.

More hesitation. More silence. Time passes. Time has no meaning. Time isn't real. Time, just filled with the sound of the wind and the waves and somewhere, distant, the cries of seagulls. He hadn't even heard them before.

"Would you prefer Gerry, perhaps?" Michael asks eventually, out of nowhere. The question is an entirely unemotional one, but its voice is quieter than before. Gerry freezes as he processes the words. And he remembers-

*

The rooftop terrace of the hotel is completely abandoned; he's the only one there. Not all that unexpected; not at 3 in the morning. Gerry is sat on one of the chairs. He ignores the rain, ignores the biting cold, and stares down into the night that's stretched out over the foreign city. He's never been here before, but it looks just like any other city right now, shrouded in the not-quite-perfect-blackness, more an inky, dark blue, disrupted by sprinkled stars and the thin sliver that makes up the moon right now, barely visible courtesy of the light pollution. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of lit windows. The late hour doesn't change that; there's life all over the city, not a single building seems to be completely asleep. Two towering buildings over, he thinks he can see the flickering of a TV inside what must be a living room. Testimony of life; of people awake, kept up by insomnia, by excitement over being with loved ones, by anxiousness about this or that or everything-

He's never quite sure if he misses London. He wants to leave every time, as soon as he sets foot into the city. Wants to turn around and walk away from a place that he should, perhaps, call home, but that never felt anywhere close to it. But then again, neither has any other town he's been in since, so perhaps he just doesn't know what "home" is supposed to feel like. ... And yet. Part of him wants to return every time, as soon as he lays his eyes on a foreign skyline.

He tries to shake off these thoughts and slowly finishes his cigarette. As he gets up to leave, he notices- It takes him a second or two to realize that he's not just imagining it. There's a door planted into the wall to his left. He's sure it wasn't there before. Which is weird, certainly, but then again, what isn't? Quickly, he contemplates his options.

1\. Leave, go back inside, get some sleep.

2\. Knock, ?

3\. Wait, ?

4\. Open it, live with the fact that this was a very rude move, ?

In the end, he sits back down and reaches for his lighter. He starts playing with it absent-mindedly, flicking it open and closed, tracing the engraved eye with his thumb. Eventually, waiting, and waiting for the "?" part of his plan to get into action, gets boring. (And, he's tired.)

"You've been here before," he says. "Not here, but I've noticed doors like this one before. Once or twice. Are you stalking me?" (No answer.) "Shy one, aren't you? I don't bite, you know. You can come out, if you want."

It takes another few seconds, but then the door is being pushed open.

Gerry doesn't know what he was expecting, but it's not this. A young person- around his age, perhaps? A little younger? The stranger steps out and immediately closes the door. It vanishes. It's not just _gone_, it just fades away bit by bit, until it seems transparent, until it looks like it was never there in the first place. The other slowly comes closer. The lighting isn't very good out here, but they have curly, blond hair down to their shoulders, and they're wearing a suit with a pattern that makes Gerry's eyes hurt. Blue eyes? He's not sure.

They're seizing him up quietly, stare at him while seconds pass. Their expression is serious, but there's the vague hint of a smile playing around the other's lips. It looks wrong, somehow, all sharp angles and the hint of teeth even though their mouth is closed.

Their voice is pleasant as they speak, warm and something else Gerry can't quite place. There's something dreamy to it. "It is late. You should be asleep."

"I was indeed planning to go back to my room now," he answers, voice level, calm.

"You are not scared."

It's not a question, but Gerry shakes his head anyway. "Should I be?"

"If you're not, then I suppose there's no need." They cock their head to one side, and Gerry winces. The angle looks … decidedly painful. "You're very naive, assistant."

_Assistant. _Gerry squints at them. So they know … something. He can't be sure how much, but they really must have been watching him for a while, then.

"Why do you call me that?" he asks after a few seconds of silence and contemplating all the directions he could take this conversation.

No answer. Fine.

"I'm Gerard. Maybe you could call me Gerry, but I haven't decided yet."

This seems to awaken their interest - they look curious as they lean in closer. The movement is oddly stilted and almost jumpy. Inhuman. _Distortion_, it suddenly occurs to him. Of course.

"What's there to decide?"

Gerry shrugs. "That name's for my friends to use."

The other's mouth twitches into a grin, first one side, then the other. Too wide. "Who calls you that? How many people?"

That earns them stunned silence. He had anticipated a number of reactions, but certainly not that one.

"Ah. You have no friends, then." It sounds oddly pleased, and Gerry can feel himself getting oddly annoyed.

"Well, do _you_?" he asks back.

Silence while seconds pass, and then the stranger in front of him straightens themselves again, that weird grin never leaving their face. "We both have no friends, then."

"Have you really just come here to call me out for my lack of social life? 'cause, you know, that's kind of rude," Gerry says, because it's true. And, he's still tired. Somewhere far away, he can hear the sound of police sirens, and it reminds him of London, and he wants to sleep.

"No, of course not. I have come here to tell you that you are very naive."

Well. That's unhelpful. He doesn't know what else he expected from someone serving the Spiral, though. He gets back up. "Right. So. That was a really cool conversation, but if I want someone to tell me cryptic stuff, I'll just ask Gertrude what her long-term plans for the end of the world are. So I'll just- Oookay, you're frowning. What did I say?"

The other's indeed- well. They're half-frowning, half-glaring at him. They take a step closer towards him. "You. Are very. Naive. Assistant," they repeat their earlier words.

"I am mostly very tired- what's your name? You know mine; if you're just going to stand here and insult me, it would be only polite, I believe, to tell me yours."

They look confused for a moment, and then shake their head. "Names are completely meaningless, assistant. They're just sounds."

"Right." Again, he doesn't know why he expected anything else. "... Preferences on pronouns, at least? You're making this interaction unnecessarily hard."

They blink at him, slowly. A little like a cat, only that with a cat, it would mean it's taken a liking to him, and Gerry seriously doubts this is what's going on. "Pronouns," they repeat, as if the word was completely foreign to them. "You're all so concerned about identity. I don't have one, assistant. I'm not a person. I am an it."

"... I don't know how to tell you this, but "it" is a pronoun."

The other frowns again, and then it sighs, and Gerry considers this a win, even though he has no idea what game they're playing, exactly. He gives his nightly visitor a little wave, and starts walking towards the door leading back inside the hotel. "Night, nameless Spiral thing. I'll try to be, uh. Less naive. And you could try to stop stalking me. Watching others is kinda ... not your usual modus operandi."

"You don't even know what I was warning you from."

Gerry doesn't turn around and instead simply opens the door, but he waits for just long enough to answer, "Well. In that case, you could try to figure out why that might be. And if you keep stalking me, you might decide to be a little less ambiguous. If you're not, again, too shy to talk to me, that is."

And with that, he leaves, and something keeps him from telling Gertrude about it, and about a week later, the nameless Spiral thing saves his life.

*

The memory hurts, for some reason. Maybe it's the clearness that clings to it; thinking clearly has gotten ... a little hard, recently, but this, he still remembers so vividly, and the sea doesn't care, and the seagulls keep crying, and- And he compresses his lips and blinks a few times before he shrugs. The anger is back; had, apparently, accompanied the hurt, and he thinks he's alright with that. Anger, he can at least do something with.

"You can call me what you want," he says. "Names mean nothing, right? Just sounds."

Michael doesn't seem pleased. It frowns and pulls its hand back. The tattoos start shifting, very slightly, very slowly. He can feel the echo of Michael's hand on his own still.

When Gerry really thinks about it, it used to be _less_ complicated. Used to feel like it, anyway.

He doesn't want to think about it. He slowly stands and turns around.

"Being petty and stubborn won't make this easier," Michael says, and then adds, "Assistant," which, in Gerry's opinion, really qualifies it for the finals of "biggest hypocrite this side of cursed doorways". He yanks the door open and steps over the threshold, and really, he doesn't even care where it will lead him. The last thing he hears is Michael's calm but insistent "My master is your master now, and you wanted this, so now you will have to accept it". Then he slams the door back shut.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this entire concept, feel free to come yell at me about it over on [tumblr](https://electricshoop.tumblr.com). (and good news, because there will be More of this; the only reason this is a series of oneshots and not a longfic is that i, well, can't write longfic)


End file.
